


and now there is after

by evenafterallthistime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenafterallthistime/pseuds/evenafterallthistime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She dreams of how it was all over with a loud boom, a destroyed corridor littered with debris, the aftermath being the sight of Fred lying on his back, still, the smile frozen in place and the eyes vacant; Fred, dead and gone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and now there is after

The breeze is light, blowing wisps of her hair free from her braid.

She stands, alone, at the end of her street; she glances back at her house, feeling a pang in her heart as she does so.

But she knows that what she had done was for the best.

It’s the only way to keep her parents safe.

Once she makes sure no one is watching, she fumbles in her purse for her wand.

After a moment, her fingers finally wrap around it and she pulls it out.

Taking a deep breath, with her wand in one hand and her purse in the other, she thinks of her intended destination and spins on the spot.

  
-

  
She apparates right outside Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and, immediately, she realizes that maybe it wasn’t exactly the best idea.

The crack that accompanies her apparition is low, but due to the lack of people bustling about in Diagon Alley, the noise is loud in the quiet setting.

She watches as Fred jumps right outside the door to his shop as he whips his head around in the direction of the noise, the colorful boxes and papers nearly tumbling out of his hands.

“Bloody hell, Granger!”

She smiles, feeling bad for startling him, but a part of her can’t help but be secretly amused that she managed to surprise Fred, of all people.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you’d be out here. Do you need help with those?” She nods at all that he’s carrying and he follows her gaze.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She hastily stows her wand back in her purse as she reaches out with her free hand to take some of the boxes, which he gratefully gives to her.

With his hands freer, he extracts his wand from his back pocket, aiming it at the door.

A thought occurs to her. “Why don’t you just apparate in?”

He chuckles, tapping his wand on the doorknob with a muttered  _alohamora_ , then looks over at her as he pushes the door open with his foot.

“It’s a nice feeling opening the door to your own shop every once in a while,” He answers, grinning, tilting his head towards the open door of the shop. “After you.”

She walks in, smiling apologetically at him as he walks in behind her. “I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just that Ron said you had Floo powder and I could arrive at the Burrow easier that way--”

“No worries,” Fred cuts her off reassuringly, shrugging. “You’re not a bother. Ron sent me an owl yesterday, saying to expect you."

“I’m glad, then,” She responds, relieved, knowing how busy both the twins were with their shop.

“So, where do you want me to put these?” She nods down at the boxes in her hands.

“Over here, in the back room,” He answers promptly, walking away towards the far back of the shop, silently telling her to follow.

She does.

The back room is actually a workshop; she can tell this, by the sight of the long wooden table and the papers spread out all over it, some being order lists and sketches of ideas for new products.

She spots the fireplace at the far end of the room, along with the jar of what she assumes to be the Floo Powder sitting to the left of it.

“Just put them on the table, thanks,” Fred says, doing so with what he’s holding, and she does.

She gazes around the empty workshop, bemused. “Where’s George?”

“Sleeping,” Fred replies, gazing briefly at one of the lists on the table, running a finger over it. “Since hardly anyone wants to wander in Diagon Alley anymore because of the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who on the loose, people just send their owls here with orders of what they want. There’s not really a point of getting up very early now.”

“I’m sorry,” She says, and means it. She can’t imagine how disappointing it must feel to not have customers enter your shop anymore.

It is something she knows that the twins worked very hard to achieve, after all.

Fred looks up at her, smiling faintly. “Your sympathy is much appreciated, Granger.”

She smiles back.

“But, honestly,” Fred adds, his eyes twinkling in a familiar manner. “Between me and George, he’s the lazy one. He’d tell you I’m lying, but I assure you, I’m telling you the truth.”

She doesn’t bother suppressing a laugh. “Well, you are the one up at seven in the morning, so I believe you.”

At this declaration, his eyes narrow slightly, studying her. “Why are  _you_ up so early? You could’ve slept in, then come here at noon or so. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He’s right. She could’ve waited until later today to do what she did to her parents, perhaps snuck up on them and did it, when they weren’t looking.

For some reason, her decision to do it while they were sleeping seemed like the better thing to do.

“I put a memory charm on my parents,” She blurts out and Fred’s eyes widen. “They have no memory of me at the moment. It’ll keep them safe.”

_They have no memory of me at the moment._

Her words wash over her, tearing at her heart.

She looks down at the dusty floor, a little ashamed that she had admitted this.

“You think they know of your friendship with Harry,” Fred says tentatively, a slight emphasis on the _they_ , recognizing her discomfort. “You think they would go after your parents.”

She looks up at him and nods. “And because I’m muggleborn.”

He smiles softly at her. “There’s a reason why you’re not in Ravenclaw, despite how smart you are. That took a lot of bravery to do. I’m impressed.”

The flattery is some consolation.

“You want some butterbeer?” Fred asks suddenly.

She looks at the fireplace. “Thanks, but I think Ron will be expecting me…”

“The only people who are up right now are my mum and dad,” He replies, brushing away her half-hearted attempt at an excuse. “Getting there a while later won’t hurt, so sit down. Take a load off. You need to.”

He gestures at one of the chairs and she complies, knowing that he has a point.

Fred grins, apparently gleeful that she's decided to give in. “I’ll be right back.”

He returns a moment later, holding two mugs of butterbeer in his hands.

He hands one to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Fred.”

He sits down across from her as she takes a sip, pushing away some of the papers.

She eyes them, feeling the curiosity beginning to set in.

“Do you want some help with those?” She asks him after another sip, and he looks at her in surprise.

She notes that she’s surprised Fred three times in the past ten minutes. Quite an accomplishment.

“It’s just that, I, well,” She stammers a bit, then catches herself. “I tend to relax better when I’m working.”

He chuckles at her, shaking his head, his butterbeer mug hovering inches away from his mouth. “You really are one of a kind, Granger. But yeah, if you’d like to help, that’d be great.”

She smiles, and they get to work, and she actually enjoys herself.

She arrives at the Burrow two hours later.

  
-

  
Harry’s all right, she can see, and George has lost an ear, but is otherwise all right, but Ron and Fred are not back yet and the fear eats away at her and she shakes, although no wind is present.

But then, after slow, excruciating minutes of waiting and wondering, they arrive.

She throws herself into Ron’s arms, holds him tightly.

As everyone enters the living room of the Burrow, mourning the sudden loss of Mad-Eye, she locks eyes with Fred from where he stands across the room.

He nods imperceptibly at her, a silent message:  _we’re all right._

She nods back:  _yes, we are._

  
-

  
He catches her alone a few weeks later in the dark, small hallway on one of the upper floors.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

She merely gapes at him, surprised that he would know about the plan.

Her expression is definitely not unrecognized by Fred; she watches as he hangs his head, almost looking ashamed.

“I overheard the three of you talking.”

“You used the Extendable Ears?” She asks, displeased that he would do such a thing, even though she should expect that from him.

“No, no,” Fred corrects her, his eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t overhear you on purpose. I was walking past Ron’s room once-- he’s not really good at keeping his voice down, you know-- and he said something about a search you guys were going to do once you leave after the wedding.”

She sighs, deciding not to lie. After all, she can’t really picture him running to his mother to tell her about this.

“It’s true,” She affirms simply, wondering if he will attempt to dissuade her from going.

He doesn’t.

“Harry’s going with you,” He states, and she knows his brain is whirring. “This must mean whatever you three are doing, it has to do with defeating _him_ , right?”

She nods, then decides to divulge one more piece of information, in the hopes that it will reassure him. “Dumbledore told Harry exactly what to do before he died.”

She turns out to be right, for this information does relax him a bit. She can see it in the way his shoulders are set.

His eyes roam over her face, scrutinizing her.

She expects him to ask more questions.

But he doesn’t.

He sighs and nods. “Well, then, be careful, Hermione. And good luck.”

“I will,” She responds, noticing his use of her first name, and smiles. “Thanks, Fred.”

He smiles back at her as he leaves her, descending the stairs, and she doesn’t miss the way his face tightens slightly as he goes.

  
-

  
She does not see Fred for months after that.

She begins to realize that, in a way, she misses him.

When the Battle of Hogwarts begins, and she finally sees him, she gets an inexplicable urge to hug him.

But there’s just no time.

  
-

  
She is blown backward with absolutely no time to prepare herself, falling to the floor on her back painfully, the debris from the explosion falling everywhere, around her and on her.

She had closed her eyes during the fall. It was the only thing she could think of to do, and as she opens her eyes slowly, she hears a cry like one she has never heard before, a cry that overflows with grief.

The voice shakes as it repeats two words like a mantra: a name, and a denial.

Harry’s hand wraps itself around hers as she gets up warily. She sees.

And all of sudden she wishes she were blind.

  
-

  
She tugs the sleeves of her sweater down; her fingers dig into the material as it covers her hands.

The burial is over.

Ron’s arm is strong and warm around her waist and she leans into him, just to feel  _some_  warmth, even though the sun shines above them in a cloud-free sky.

Mrs. Weasley sobs quietly in her handkerchief as her husband holds her close and whispers comforting words in her ear.

Everyone is so quiet.

George stands alone, though it is simply by choice. His face is pale and impassive.

He stares at the mound of earth in which his brother now eternally rests, then after a moment, his gaze shifts toward a distance far ahead of him, resting on nothing.

  
-

  
“I’ve finally been able to convince George to re-open the shop,” Ron declares, and it is a proud victory of his, for George has been almost shut-down for a month.

Without Fred, he seems to just be an empty shell.

Harry grins from where he sits on Ron’s bedroom floor, but it is a careful smile, a sympathetic one. “That’s great, Ron.”

She sits at the foot of Ron’s bed, silent.

When Ron looks over at her, she manages a smile and nods in approval.

Even though Ginny is a prominent part of their group, now that she and Harry are back together, they still are the trio, and often find themselves having late-night talks in Ron’s room, once everyone is asleep.

The three of them have been through too much together; their experiences together have created a bond between them that will never be broken.

“The thing is, I’m going to have to help him for a while, since Fred is, you know…” Ron trails off uncomfortably and there is a collective silence.

“I guess the Auror training will have to be on hold, then,” Harry finally says understandably, and Ron nods.

Harry is to start Auror training in a few weeks. So is Ron. Well, so  _was_  Ron, she sees now.

“George says I don’t have to help him, that he can handle it on his own,” Ron mutters, staring hard at the blanket covering his bed. “But I just don’t trust him to be alone right now.”

“I’ll do it,” She says suddenly, immediately sure of her decision.

Ron and Harry look at her in confusion.

“You can do Auror training with Harry, Ron,” She elaborates. “I’ll help George in the shop.”

“Hermione, no,” Ron protests, his eyebrows creasing in concern. “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, what about your studies?” Harry chimes in, also looking at her in solicitude. “Preparing for your career?”

She shrugs. “I have plenty of time to do that, really. Besides, a break would be nice right now. Working at the shop could be a fun experience.”

As Ron sees that she will not be swayed, due to the determined look on her face, he gazes at her and asks softly, “Are you sure?”

She smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Harry’s eyes burn into the side of her face, but he says nothing.

Later, Ron pulls her close and kisses her, thankful.

She doesn’t regret her decision, not at all.

  
-

  
A part of her had expected George to protest at her taking Ron’s place, but he does nothing of the sort.

When she tells him that she will be helping him, all he does is nod glumly at her, and with that, they get to work.

The bags under his eyes do not go unnoticed by her.

  
-

  
Over the next couple of weeks, the shop is back to being a big success.

It is stressful, but it is also a blessing. The overload of work keeps them busy at all times, keeps their thoughts constantly away from the darker parts of their minds, the parts that are filled with haunting memories and bitter regrets.

George has not lost his creative and imaginative streak when it comes to creating new products, but there are some days he struggles, where she can tell he’s so close to just giving up on this completely, this dream of his and his twin’s that came to life.

On those days, she does all she can to help him.

He is broken, there’s no doubt about it, and it is because of this that she’s extremely gentle with him, endlessly easy on him.

To her, he is almost like a porcelain doll come to life; he’s already riddled with cracks, the result of a broken heart, and there’s not a day that goes by that she’s not afraid that just one reprimanding comment on his behavior or a thoughtless comment that he will, in some way, link to Fred, will make him crumble to pieces at her feet.

She hopes that day never comes.

  
-

  
The war is over.

The nightmares are not.

Those demons continue to plague her, even in her own home, surrounded by her loving, blissfully ignorant parents (she had removed the memory charm on them immediately after Voldemort was defeated), and it gets to the point that she forgets what peaceful sleep is.

Truth be told, she hasn’t had good sleep in a long time. That was one of the consequences of having Harry as your best friend, even though she will never, ever regret befriending him in her first year at Hogwarts.

The nightmares vary, preying on her worst fears, most horrifying memories… there are times that she dreams that Voldemort is reborn, that they were mistaken in their victory, his lipless mouth curving into a cruel smile, his red eyes gleaming.

There are times she dreams that, in a flash of green light, everyone she holds dear are dead. 

She never dreams of them being tortured.

She just dreams of them being dead in an instant, right before her eyes with her helpless, unable to stop it.

But while those nightmares were simply that, nightmares, just terrible scenarios dredged up from the recesses of her mind, they were easy to get over.

It’s the dreams of a true memory re-living itself that stays with her hours and hours after she wakes.

She dreams of Fred.

She dreams of his carefree laugh, the way his blue eyes glimmered with amusement.

She dreams of how it was all over with a loud boom, a destroyed corridor littered with debris, the aftermath being the sight of Fred lying on his back, still, the smile frozen in place and the eyes vacant; Fred, dead and gone.

That dream is the worst, because that nightmare is a reality.

  
-

  
As if spurred on by these recurring dreams, she visits Fred’s grave.

She sets flowers by it, lets her fingers linger over his name engraved in the marble, looks sadly at the dates.

She puts a charm on the flowers so they won’t wilt.

This is rather a redundant act, for she always brings fresh flowers every time she visits anyway.

  
-

  
George tends to stay at the shop late at night, hours after closing time.

“Tell him we miss him, won’t you?” Mrs. Weasley inquires, hopeful. “I would visit him myself but I can hardly get any words out of him.”

“Of course, Mrs. Weasley,” She replies, and puts on the best smile she can to assure her. “I’ll do that.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes sweep her face and the sadness is evident in her eyes, but Hermione can tell that the woman is grateful that someone is with George, keeping him company.

Making sure nothing bad happens, she knows. She hates to think of it that way.

Later that night, she discovers George asleep at the table in the work room, his hair mussed and his face buried in his arms.

A nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey is inches away from him.

She lets him sleep.

She sends an owl telling her parents she won’t be home tonight.

Then she takes the bottle of Firewhiskey and gets rid of it.

  
-

  
She doesn’t sleep the entire night.

Instead, she simply does a little bit of work, waiting for him to wake up.

At six in the morning, he does.

By the way he acts it seems like, at first, he doesn’t really know where he is, but comprehension comes and he groans, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“How long have you been drinking, George?”

He looks up and sees her, bleary-eyed. “Not long. It helps me sleep.”

She presses her lips together, trying to think of how to say it, but then decides that blunt honesty is necessary due to this serious situation. “You can’t let it become a habit. You know that.”

He swallows thickly, wincing at the bitter taste the Firewhiskey had left in his mouth. “I do.”

She nods to herself, satisfied that he acknowledges this, and looks back down at the papers.

“You saw it, didn’t you, Hermione?”

She stills, staring fixedly at the words on the paper but not taking them in.

She doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about, because she just knows.

“Yes, I did,” She responds quietly. “I was there.”

“I didn’t see it. I wasn’t there.”

“Sometimes being there is worse than not being there.”

Instantly, she feels horror rise up within her at the words that escaped her lips.

She doesn’t know how she could be so unsympathetic.

When she looks at him, she expects him to be angry, and rightly so.

But all she sees is a blank face.

“Funny,” He says, but the deeply morose expression on his face contradicts the word. “I think the exact opposite.”

And he lets himself fall apart, right in front of her.

The tears slip down his face, one after the other, as he stares at the wooden table, refusing to meet her eyes.

His face does not contort in despair, but the tears continue to leak from his eyes.

She reaches out and grasps his hand tightly in both of her own, gives him his privacy by looking down at the papers.

She doesn’t decide to leave the room, to leave him alone, because the truth is, he’s been alone far too much, he already  _feels_ alone because of Fred’s absence, and he needs to know that he does not need to hide his sorrow, most certainly not around her.

He squeezes at her hands in turn, as he gives in to his sadness, and she thinks that perhaps this is progress.

  
-

  
One night, at the Burrow, she has trouble sleeping, like always, and she decides to go out in the backyard and take a walk, to clear her head and inhale the fresh air.

Before the war, she probably wouldn’t have dreamed of doing this, but it’s been months since the war has ended, the Death Eaters have been captured and locked away in Azkaban, Voldemort is, of course, dead, and there is no more danger to be expected.

However, she still jumps when she hears the rustling of the grass behind her.

She whips around, thrusting her lighted wand out, only to see the startled face of Harry.

“Merlin, Hermione, it’s just me!”

She moves her wand away, shaking her head and smiling. “Do you have any idea how close I was to cursing you?”

His laugh is low, carrying across the breeze. “I can guess.”

They cast their lighted wands down in the direction of the ground, illuminating their path.

“What are you doing awake?” She asks curiously.

“I had already been awake for a while. Then I heard you curse as you banged into something on the way down the hallway and I decided to follow you.”

She laughs, yet her face flushes a bit in embarrassment. “I was hoping no one heard that.”

They walk in a companionable silence for a few minutes, then Harry starts a new topic.

“How’s working at the shop with George?”

“Good,” She answers brightly, “George is making conversation more. He’s doing better. Not that he will ever get over the loss of Fred…”

Harry is silent for a moment, but she knows he’s holding something back.

“You… miss him too, don't you?” Harry finally asks tentatively. 

She starts, turning to look at him.

“I saw you visit his grave once,” Harry explains quickly, sheepish. “I saw you cry, Hermione.”

He lowers his voice, as if pained to say it. "I saw your face when we saw him lying there.”

Harry barely suppresses a shudder at this mention.

“I don’t think George is the only one suffering over this, Hermione.”

She takes a deep breath and reluctantly brings her wand up to cast light over Harry’s face.

He peers at her pensively.

“I had some time with him,” She answers solemnly. “Before we got you from the Dursleys'. He was kind to me. He understood why..."

Tears suddenly rise to her eyes and she tries to blink them away, unable to finish.

Harry must see this because he moves closer and wraps his arms around her in comfort.

She leans into his embrace.

“You shouldn't keep these things to yourself,” Harry whispers, knowing, and she supposes he is right.

He does know her well, after all, just like she does him.

“I know,” She replies, but still feels uneasy about letting it go. “Could we keep this between us, though? Please.”

At this, he pulls back, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

His emerald eyes shine behind his glasses. She knows that statement can’t be more true.

He smiles reassuringly at her.

She smiles back, grateful.

  
-

  
Another month passes.

George does not sleep at the shop anymore, nor does she catch him drinking ever again.

Angelina visits the shop frequently towards the end of the day and Hermione can see a smile, a genuine one at that, appear on his face at the sight of her.

But sometimes, when George thinks no one is looking, a shadow passes over his face as he tests some new products out, or stocks them, and she knows exactly who he is thinking about, who he will never stop thinking about.

But he is healing, and that makes her happy.

A week later, George tells her that he plans to hire new workers for the shop.

“It’s not that I don’t like having you here, helping me,” He explains hurriedly. “But let’s be honest, Hermione, you don’t want to make this a career, do you? You need to pursue what  _you_  want.”

She smiles. “I understand. Thanks, George.”

Afterward, he hugs her. It is fleeting, but he holds her tightly in those few seconds, and she knows what he's trying to say.

  
-

  
On her last day, she stacks the papers on the table, sidesteps the boxes and failed products that cover the floor, mentally checking off a list and making sure everything is ordered and done for the time being.

Satisfied after a moment, she swipes her wand off the table and a loud squeak fills the air and she stares down at her hand, in which she is holding a rubber chicken.

The laughter tumbles out of her mouth, and soon it is uncontrollable; she laughs and laughs until it hurts, it echoing around the room, and she thinks that if this isn’t a sign that things can only get better from now, she doesn’t know what is.


End file.
